


Keep The Home Fires Burning

by Roshwen



Category: The Librarians (TV 2014)
Genre: (Except for Ezekiel's Old Boss Off Course But He Has It Coming), Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, But Also Everything Turns Out Sort Of Okay, Drama, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Everything Hurts, Ezekiel Backstory, Ezekiel's old Boss is a Son of a Bitch, M/M, This Is Not The Happy Fic You're Looking For, Tiny slices of fluff to offset the Angst, Whump, gratuitous use of flashbacks, tw for child abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 10:16:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17384621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roshwen/pseuds/Roshwen
Summary: Somewhere in Russia, about three hundred miles east of Moscow, a house was burning.It hadn’t been a big house; it had not even been a particularly nice house. But it had been the only shelter Ezekiel Jones had managed to find for miles, and as he blinked back into consciousness, coughing and retching against the smoke and ash that was clogging his nose and throat, he realized he was going to die.Or: Ezekiel is forced to go on one last mission for his old boss. Nobody takes this too well. Least of all a certain cowboy who thought that maybe he could get used to this 'long term relationship' thing, only to find his thief vanished without a trace and a certain candle in the Chamber of Memories suddenly burning dangerously low...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo... this has been in my mind in some variation or other for ages, and I think I'm finally ready to commit it to paper. As always, I'm not sure how this is going to play out, how long it's going to get or whenever the next update is going to be, but I hope you'll stick with me regardless. I promise you there will be sweetness at the end and light at the end of a very dark tunnel, so I hope you enjoy the ride!

Somewhere in Russia, about three hundred miles east of Moscow, a house was burning.

It hadn’t been a big house; it had not even been a particularly nice house. But it had been the only shelter Ezekiel Jones had managed to find for miles, and as he blinked back into consciousness, coughing and retching against the smoke and ash that was clogging his nose and throat, he realized he was going to die.

The ground underneath him was cold. Hard and unforgiving rock, with a couple of mossy patches that did nothing for comfort, but were enough to soak the remains of his shirt and pants through and through. The forest around him was cold too, cold and quiet except for the crackle of the fire that was still burning away behind him. Otherwise, nothing moved. The trees were bare, having shed the last of their leaves weeks ago. Even the sky overhead was almost colorless, a blanket of white that hurt his eyes and caused vivid spots dancing in front of his vision when he tried to focus. He could feel the still smoldering building at his back, a blanket of warmth that would all too soon dwindle into nothing. His clothes were hanging in tatters around his body, the back of his shirt all but scorched away in the blast that had destroyed his safe house, the legs of his pants frayed and torn from dragging the quad all the way up here across an overgrown track that had barely earned that name.

That quad had been his only means of getting back to civilization. And even from his low and limited vantage point, Ezekiel could see it was now a charred metal skeleton as well.

He was stuck. On his own, in the middle of nowhere with no way out. And he was going to die.

A gust of cold air blew down, counterpointing the heat. Ezekiel shivered, hunching in on himself and biting back a scream as that small movement caused a wave of sheer, unadulterated agony to break loose. His shoulder was on fire, a white-hot ball of pain that did not abate even when he held himself perfectly still and when he gave up on lying still and tried, slowly, inch for inch, to move and sit up, bracing himself and holding back another scream as his shoulder immediately exploded again, he noticed his leg.

Or rather, his knee.

He could see it through the hole in his pants. A vivid red and black mass of skin, gnarled and twisted and angry. Leaving his lower leg to lie awkwardly in a way that legs usually were not supposed to bend.

The weird thing was that it didn’t even hurt at the moment. All he could feel was his shoulder, a vicious throbbing sensation that shot through his entire chest with every breath.

He was sitting up now, leaning back against a convenient tree trunk and breathing heavily against the pain. He reached down to feel the one burner phone he had taken with him when he had left the Library in his pocket, and he didn’t even need to take it out to know that it had smashed into a thousand pieces when he had hit the ground face first. He still tried, his hand meeting only shards of plastic and metal before he closed his eyes and let out a breath that sounded more like a stifled sob.

He was going to die.

He had made it through his mission. He had survived, against all the odds, even when it turned out that color him _not_ surprised, the mission had been rigged against him from the start. Even when Orlov, that fucking bloody blasted treacherous son of a bitch _Orlov_ had started hacking away at the gas pipes in what could only generously be called the kitchen, Ezekiel had been fast, smart, _lucky_ enough to get to the door before the place went up.

Orlov was gone. Ezekiel hoped he was still inside the house, burning merrily away with everything else, but he couldn’t be sure.

But Ezekiel was here. Ten miles away from the nearest village that he couldn’t even pronounce the name of, with no means of transportation. His leg was in shambles, there was something popping and cracking in his shoulder with every move he made and by now, he could also feel the sharp, stabbing pain in his chest that told him he had cracked at least two ribs. He had no food, no water, no means of gathering either and no shelter to speak of. He had no way to call for help, and even if the team back home, his team at the Library, had known where he was, well. The only door in a ten-mile radius had just burned away into nothing.

This was it, then.

The sun was hanging low already, and Ezekiel could feel the chill gathering on the ground, seeping up into his bones. Within hours, the temperature would drop below freezing and he had only his tattered shirt and pants to keep him warm. He choked out another breath that tasted of smoke and sat back against his tree trunk, huddling in on himself in a futile effort to preserve as much warmth as he could. Another breeze of frigid air blew past and Ezekiel felt his cheeks grow cold, as if drops of ice were slowly trickling down. He wiped at them with his good hand; it came away wet. Drying his hand on the remains of his shirt, he also noticed that he had started shaking, which was the point he finally realized he might be heading into shock.

Not that it mattered. There was still room on the list of things that were going to kill him.

The shadows between the trees grew darker as the sun set lower and lower, the sky turning from blinding white to hazy grey to dark. And in the distance, the far off distance, because this was Russia and Ezekiel did not know much about Russia and the outdoors but he knew _some_ things, a lonely, haunting howl rose up into the air.

_Such as those,_ Ezekiel thought with something that was almost a laugh.

Soon, the howls in the distance gathered in strength and numbers. Ezekiel briefly contemplated moving again, getting to higher ground or, failing that, into the remains of the house to get _some_ kind of cover. But even the thought caused another surge of searing pain through his shoulder, arm and chest, and when he tried to move his leg, the pain shot up through his leg so fast he had to count his breaths and blink away the black spots dancing in front of his vision before he passed out.

Now there was a thought.

Ezekiel had never been afraid of dying. He had spent his whole life dancing on the edge, skirting, dodging and playing with danger because he was _good_ at it, he loved it and he would rather live brief and bright than long and boring. And even now, now that it seemed death had finally caught up with him, he felt nothing more than a strange kind of detachment, as if it wasn’t _him_ sitting there on the ground in the rapidly darkening forest, clutching his shoulder and slowly listing sideways against a rotting piece of wood. Detachment, and a heavy swell of sadness in his stomach that had nothing to do with his current situation, and everything with the small item he felt shift against his skin as he took as deep a breath as he dared.

He reached up. Inside the torn collar of his shirt, to take out a worn leather strap holding a small silver pendant, the size of his thumbnail. There was something written on it, but even if Ezekiel had been able to read it, his vision was going to blurry to make any of it out.

_I’m sorry_ , he thought. One small tug was enough to break the strap, and his hand holding the pendant fell back into his lap. _I’m sorry._

His eyes fell closed. Darkness closed in around him and Ezekiel had never been afraid of dying, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be awake for it.

_I’m sorry._

He breathed in, clenched the hand with the broken necklace tight, shifted his ruined leg again and then let the burst of pain wash him away into blissful unconsciousness.

\---

Five thousand miles away, in a darkened room only lit by a multitude of candles, Jacob Stone stood in the doorway. Barely breathing and his fists clenched into the pockets of his jeans, he kept his gaze locked on one very small tea light that was spluttering in an unseen breeze and burning dangerously low.

‘Don’t you dare.’

It would have been a growl, if his voice hadn’t cracked on the last word. ‘Don’t you fucking dare.’


	2. Chapter 2

**42 days earlier...**

‘Hey, Jonesy?’

‘Hm?’

They were lying, curled up together on the couch in Jake’s apartment amid a veritable nest of blankets and pillows. Outside, rain was clattering against the windows and in the distance a rumbling storm was gathering strength and drawing steadily closer. But inside, the lights were dimmed, the sound of the movie they had started watching set to background noise level and right here, right now, with the head of his thief pillowed on his chest, his hand tracing slow patterns across soft, golden skin while nimble fingers fiddled idly with the hem of his shirt, Jake felt, for once, perfectly content.

Ezekiel shifted, earning Jake a nose full of feather-soft hair before he peered up. ‘What is it, cowboy?’

Jake smiled, his heart once again swelling at the sight of brown eyes with their perpetual spark of mischief, even when looking drowsy because it was late and they should probably have gone to bed hours ago. He reached out, plucking a strand of hair from Ezekiel’s brow and brushing it away, watching Ezekiel close his eyes and lean into the touch. ‘You know, your birthday’s coming up,’ he said. ‘You got any plans yet?’

Ezekiel’s eyes snapped open. For a moment, Jake felt his muscles tense a little, the way he always did when things got too personal (although with Ezekiel, you never knew. Depending on his mood, even a ‘how was your day’ could be considered too personal). But then he breathed out, flopping back onto Jake’s very comfortable chest. ‘I know my birthday’s coming up, yeah. Question is, how do you know?’

‘There’s a calendar in the Annex,’ Jake said, trying not to laugh at Ezekiel’s offended huff. ‘Pushin’ thirty, are you?’

‘Shut up.’

Still grinning, Jake looked down and brushed a kiss to the top of Ezekiel’s head, tightening his arm that was slung over his chest by way of apology. ‘Question still stands, though. You wanna do anything? Anything you want me to get you? Just tell me and I’ll try to make it happen.’

‘Oh. Well, in _that_ case…’

‘… although I’m not getting you any art, jewelry or precious artifacts if they're not for sale and I’m also still not taking you to Antwerp.’

Jake could practically hear Ezekiel’s pout. ‘You’re no fun.’

‘I know.’ Jake paused, planting another kiss into Ezekiel’s hair and taking a moment to breathe in the scent of warmth and mint and home. The rain outside was growing heavier now, slamming against the windows with a vengeance and growling of the thunder was drowning out the movie audio. ‘But someone’s gotta keep the both of us out of jail. But, if there’s anything else you’d like to do, or to have, you know. Let me know.’

Ezekiel remained quiet for a long moment. So long that Jake was starting to wonder if he had actually fallen asleep, but then he sighed and rubbed his face. ‘Gotta say, cowboy. Never thought I’d get this far.’

Now it was Jake who fell quiet, silently reaching down and lacing his fingers with Ezekiel’s.

‘And as for stuff I’d want,’ Ezekiel continued, squeezing Jake’s fingers in response, ‘I gotta think about that. You know, since I usually get everything myself. There’s not really anything left that I’d want, I mean. I’ve already got…’

‘Me?’ Jake finished, pecking Ezekiel’s temple. ‘Thanks, Jonesy. Love you too.’

Ezekiel glared. ‘I was gonna say, I’ve already got Jenkins’ super-secret brownie recipe. So I’m all good.’

‘Hm,’ Jake agreed. ‘Not sure if I’m ever gonna top that.’

The weather was turning truly biblical now, with the wind howling and buffeting the walls, the thunder crashing and the rain pouring in a way that made Jake wonder if they’d need to start building a boat and gathering animals at some point. But then Ezekiel shifted again and hoisted himself up so he could catch Jake’s mouth in a deep and languid kiss and for a moment, Jake lost himself in the glorious feeling of his thief, safe and warm and solid in his arms.

‘Don’t worry,’ Ezekiel said as he broke away with a grin that only made Jake want to kiss him again. ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something.’

_\---_

In the end, they never made it to Ezekiel’s birthday. They never made it to the Oregon Zoo and dinner at Ezekiel’s favorite pizza place afterwards, and Jake never got to give him the book about magical creatures he had liberated from the Library, with the promise that they’d spend the next year trying to find them all (or at least, the non-lethal ones).

In the end, Jake never got to hold his thief tight, kiss him and tell him that, even if Ezekiel hadn’t expected to make it this far, Jake was damn glad that he had.

All of that never happened because three days later, Ezekiel’s phone started to buzz.

\---

‘Agent Jones, so good to finally get a hold of you.’

Not five minutes ago, Ezekiel had stumbled through the Back Door with one arm looped around his cowboy’s shoulders and the other carrying the prize of the day: a handheld mirror that, not unlike the ones mentioned in the fairytales, could tell you all kinds of things. It had made several crooked bookies supremely rich, and then supremely dead as word of their unnatural good fortune started to spread. Team Library had solved the case with their usual flair and without anybody getting horribly maimed, and there had been laughter and victory cheer and even an approving nod from Jenkins before he oh so casually mentioned that Ezekiel’s phone had been buzzing off and on while he was out mirror-hunting.

‘The number wasn’t displayed,’ he said as Ezekiel frowned at his phone in dismay. ‘And they would not let me take a message. They insisted they speak to you personally. I got the impression it was rather urgent.’

It would be. No one who had his number would call for a casual chat, with the exception of the three people who were currently out to get some beer from the Fountain of Youth, organizing her desk because it somehow reset _again_ and dashing towards the kitchen to get them all some after-case snacks, respectively.

‘No name?’ Ezekiel asked. He tapped some buttons to see if his phone would reveal the number, but unfortunately, whoever it was knew their business. If Jenkins hadn’t mentioned it, he would never have known that someone had called.

Which was enough to make the first tendrils of unease start to twist inside his gut.

‘Not a full name,’ Jenkins said, in a voice that made it very clear what he thought of mysterious callers. Ezekiel only wished he could share that sentiment. ‘But they mentioned an Uncle Al and said you would know.’

At which point Ezekiel grabbed the phone, turned on his heel and all but sprinted up the stairs towards his office, slamming, locking and bolting the door behind him.

Now he was sitting on the floor in that same office, because he had not even made it to his chair when the phone started buzzing again. He sat leaning against the wall instead as an oily voice he had hoped to never hear again slithered into his ear. ‘My dear boy, how have you been?’

Ezekiel clutched the phone a little tighter and tried to swallow back the vomit that was rising up in the back of his throat. ‘I’ve been okay,’ he muttered. ‘Not too bad. Uncle Al.’

Uncle Al chuckled, the sound raising up the hair in Ezekiel’s neck. ‘Good, good. That’s good to hear. And I noticed you’ve made yourself some friends, that’s wonderful!’

For a moment, Ezekiel thought that only meant Jenkins, who had answered the phone. Then he remembered who Uncle Al actually was, and that was the moment his revulsion and unease shifted into stomach churning fear. ‘No. You leave them alone.’

‘She’s a fierce little thing, isn’t she?’ Uncle Al continued in a cheerful voice that did not have Ezekiel fooled for a second. ‘Although the gentleman is a little rough around the edges, but I can see his appeal. Quite a clever fellow, if my sources are to be believed.’

‘No.’

It was barely a whisper, and it did not cut through the monologue at the other end. Ezekiel closed his eyes as a full description of the life and habits of Cassandra Cillian and Jacob Stone were laid out before him in as friendly and jovial a tone as if it was just a conversation between a nephew and his slightly over-doting uncle. As if this was just a normal conversation, a chat to catch up and not the start of the impending doom that Ezekiel had always known would come his way some day.

‘But that’s not why I’m calling, of course,’ Uncle Al concluded and Ezekiel clamped his mouth shut so he would not laugh out loud. ‘Agent Jones, I know we did not part on the best of terms, but I need your help.’

Ezekiel swallowed. _Not the best of terms_ was a bit of an understatement; he distinctly remembered his handler pulling a gun on him, followed by Ezekiel throwing said handler into the Seine, making a mad dash through Paris and the French countryside to escape his _other_ handler that he had not previously known about and then lying low for three miserable months in a miserable hovel on the miserable fields of southern Spain before he managed to stowaway on a truck that took him halfway across Europe until he had ended up, finally alone and with nothing but the clothes on his back, in Gdansk of all fucking places.

Gdansk had been nice. A bit cold, but surprisingly nice. And, best of all, far, _far_ away from the man who had owned him, body and soul. Who, in fact, _still_ owned a piece of him.

And now he was back.

_You must be truly desperate,_ Ezekiel thought with something that was almost a hysterical giggle, because Uncle Al didn’t need his help. Uncle Al didn’t even particularly _want_ his help and whatever it was, Ezekiel was pretty sure that there were plenty of other agents under Uncle Al’s thumb who could handle it.

This wasn’t a call for help. This was payback.

‘I know you’re not technically an Agent anymore,’ Uncle Al continued, ‘but I would appreciate it, dear boy, if you could take on one last mission for your Uncle Al. And for the good of the people of course, as it is a matter of national security.’

Ezekiel made a face, even through the haze of _this isn’t happening_ surrounding him. It always was. Even if it would turn out that the Princess of Wales had stubbed her toe, Uncle Al would find a way to spin it into a matter of national security somehow.

But matter of national security or not: Uncle Al had eyes on Stone and Cassandra. Ezekiel did not give one single flying fuck about the Queen’s people, but he would do anything and everything Uncle Al told him to, up to and including walking into the pits of hell to ask Hades if he could borrow his dog, to keep those eyes from turning into hands. Or worse.

‘When,’ Ezekiel asked, mind racing. If Uncle Al would give him enough time, maybe he could still find a way out. Find a way to grab his team and relocate the Annex to Brazil, or even better: grab his team and find a way to relocate the Annex to the dark side of the moon, because if Uncle Al could find him when he was practically living inside a magical place with no actual physical location except for the entryway, then he could find him anywhere.

‘It is already quite late,’ Uncle Al replied. ‘You should get some sleep first and report to me tomorrow morning, 9am sharp. I assume you can still find the way to my office? Otherwise I can send Rueben to come and get you.’

9am London time meant 1am Portland time. Ezekiel did some quick mental arithmetic and realized he had about seven hours. That was something, at least. Seven hours should be enough time to come up with a plan. An idea, a course of action, a way to tell his team what was going on, _something_ that would help.

He breathed out. ‘9am. I’ll be there.’

A violent ramming on the door made him jump as someone outside yelled at the top of his cowboy lungs. ‘Jones! Get your ass back down, beer’s getting warm!’

‘Good,’ Uncle Al said. ‘It’ll be good to see you again. Agent Jones.’

\---

Ezekiel had no idea how long he had spent on the phone. It had felt like years, but when he joined his team back downstairs, Jake was not even halfway through his beer and Cassandra had just put down her platter of cucumber and tomato sandwiches. It could not have been more than a couple of minutes.

Everything he’d managed to build, everything he’d come to love, turned upside down and slipping away in the time it took Cassandra to slice up a vegetable and put it on a piece of bread.

He had no idea how he made it through the rest of the evening; he ate the sandwiches, and the pizza he ordered everybody for dessert. He drank his beer and kissed his cowboy, he even laughed when Cassandra made that adorable high-pitched squeaking noise that she still did whenever the two of them got within two feet of each other. In response, he made a grab for her, planting a sopping kiss on her forehead just to make her crack up again while claiming she didn’t need to be jealous because there was enough of him to go around. He even leered at Baird for a second but she backed up so quickly she collided heavily with Jenkins’ desk while giving him her fiercest death glare, which made the entire Annex shake with laughter again.

He talked, he laughed, he joked, he kissed and all the while, his mind kept spinning, turning this way and that, formulating plans, thinking up ways and exits and roundabouts and discarding them almost immediately because they were too dangerous, too impractical, too dependent on luck, too costly in a way that did not have anything to do with money.

And then, suddenly, it was nearing midnight and Eve was bundling a sleepy Cassandra into her coat to drive her home. Jenkins had packed the remains of the after-case dinner away and had scampered off to wherever he went at night, and Jake and Ezekiel were left alone in a darkened Annex.

‘Hey, Jonesy,’ Jake murmured, wrapping a heavy arm around Ezekiel’s shoulders and pulling him in for a kiss. ‘You ready to go home?’

Jake smelled of sweat and old paper and he tasted of beer and pizza, and stepping out of his embrace was one of the hardest things Ezekiel had ever done. He shook his head with an apologetic smile. ‘No can do, cowboy. Got some business to take care of.’

Jake’s face darkened. ‘That phone call. Trouble?’

Ezekiel shrugged. ‘Probably.’

Jake fell quiet, studying Ezekiel for a long moment. Ezekiel tried not to think of the minutes ticking by, or what he would do if his cowboy would ask him, right to his face, what was going on. He knew Jake wasn’t one to pry, which was something he usually greatly appreciated; right now, he wasn’t so sure whether he wanted his cowboy to back off or press closer and stick his nose into Ezekiel’s business for once.

‘Anything I can do?’ Jake asked eventually, and Ezekiel blew out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

‘Stay out of it,’ he said, as gently as he could so as not to get Jake’s hackles rising. ‘Go home. Get some sleep.’ He swallowed, giving up on the air that everything was okay and going instead for the barefaced lie. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Jake bit his lip, giving Ezekiel a look that he probably meant to be shrewd but, given the hour and the beer and the long day behind them, just came out tired. ‘Alright,’ he said after a long pause. He stepped forward, taking hold of Ezekiel’s shoulder again to press a stubbled kiss to his cheek. ‘But you gotta promise you’ll take care, okay?’ He drew back and smiled, giving Ezekiel’s shoulder one last squeeze before he shrugged on his jacket. ‘Come back in one piece, that’s all I’m askin’.’

_Can’t promise that, cowboy,_ Ezekiel thought, even as he nodded, forced out another grin and then gave Jake’s retreating back a cheery wave before he turned towards the globe next to the Back Door. Pocketing the small item he had liberated from Jake’s coat, giving in to a very old habit he had never quite managed to get rid of. It was soft and paper-y, with a something solid inside; he would look at it later and who knew. Perhaps he’d even manage to give it back someday.

The globe spun. The Back Door lit up. It was 8.30 London time and Ezekiel took a deep breath and then stepped out of his new life and back into his old one.


	3. Chapter 3

Jake’s apartment, which had by now become Jake and Ezekiel’s apartment although when exactly that had happened nobody knew, was only a couple of blocks from the Annex. It was only a fifteen minutes’ walk, and on most days, Jake was absolutely fine with that.

Now, however. As he stood huddled inside his jacket beneath St. John’s Bridge, gazing balefully up at the rain that was coming down in sheets, he merely groaned. After contemplating for one long, self-indulgent moment that maybe he could go back and take a Back Door home instead, he then sighed, shoved his hands into his pockets, braced himself and set out into the downpour.

It wasn’t until he was almost home that he realized why his fingers kept moving around inside his pocket as if looking for something. And that realization made him stop, even though he was already feeling like a drowned rat as it was, because Ezekiel must _really_ be freaking out about something if he was going around picking pockets again.

With a flicker of both worry and annoyance, Jake felt around once more, meeting only emptiness and general coat pocket fluff. He usually didn’t mind his thief taking his wallet or his keys, because he would always get them back and sometimes, after some pressing, Ezekiel would even tell him what was bothering him.

This time, it seemed like the second part would not be happening; Jake knew Ezekiel and he knew the look on Ezekiel’s face that said Forbidden Territory No Trespassing to any invasive questions. And even if Ezekiel would give back what he had taken, Jake had to admit he felt a bit bummed out about having part of his birthday plans spoiled already.

Ah well. Couldn’t be helped. Of course, Jake could, in theory, march back to the Annex and force Ezekiel to give it back but on the other hand, it was still raining, it was well past midnight and Jake was both exhausted and soaked through to the bone.

With a sigh and a muttered statement about fucking thieves and their fucking sticky fingers, Jake set off again, shivering as a well-aimed gust wind deposited a swirl of icy rain drops down his neck. With any luck, Ezekiel wouldn’t even look at what he’d stolen and Jake would get it back tomorrow without him being any the wiser.

Holding on to that thought, and pushing away the worry that had been niggling away at him since the moment Ezekiel had shrugged and said _‘probably’,_ Jake climbed up the stairs to his (their) apartment, shrugged off his coat, deposited it on a nearby chair and went to bed.

\---

The Back Door being what it was, it did not deposit Ezekiel precisely at his destination. Instead, after turning around a couple of times and looking suspiciously at the elegant Stone-would-probably-know-the-style buildings, he realized he was in London, but at least half an hour’s walk away from where he should be.

For a moment, he contemplated the respective benefits of hailing a taxi and letting Uncle Al foot the bill or taking his sweet time and arriving fifteen minutes late. Then, deciding that he could use the fresh air and that there was no sense in rushing towards whatever unpleasantness Uncle Al had in store for him, he set off into the direction of Vauxhall Bridge.

The sky overhead was cloudless, a pale blue that promised an unusually sunny day ahead. Black taxis and red buses thundered past and when Ezekiel turned a corner, he could see the Thames meander its merry way along to sea. And across the river, in the distance, he could already see the massive, ugly building that was the MI6 headquarters. He watched it come closer with mounting apprehension, dragging his feet the further he got up the bridge and swallowing the bile that was rising at the back of his throat while his heart started to pound louder and louder with every step, until it almost drowned out the roar of the city around him.

He reached the foot of the bridge and turned, not left towards the monstrosity that sat on the river bank like a giant middle finger to architecture, but right. Shoving his hands into his pockets, his fingers met the paper object again and grabbed it tight enough to rip as he pushed his way through the crowd, down the road until he came to a halt across the road from an older building, made out of brown brick and with the kind of artsy detail along the facade that Stone would probably get really excited about. Between the glass and steel high rises around it, it looked massively out of place.

It had a portico and a nice, gleaming black door with a discreet bronze doorbell almost falling away against the brickwork. A small plaque next to the door read _The Aloysius Institute._

Ezekiel breathed in. He couldn’t tell if the lightness in his head and the stinging in his eyes were because of nerves, revulsion or just plain tiredness, but he had to pause a moment, counting his breaths before he looked right, looked left, crossed the road, climbed the two portico steps and rang the doorbell.

\---

 _‘You nicked the wrong wallet there,_ mate _,’ the inspector informed him as he shoved Ezekiel hard against the hood of the car. ‘Bit of a shame we don’t have the Australia transports running anymore, eh?’_

_Ezekiel did not object, even as the air was pushed from his lungs because well, the inspector wasn’t wrong. He merely made a face, struggling a little for the show of it as the handcuffs were slapped on and he was manhandled into the vehicle. After another shove, the door slammed shut and Ezekiel slunk back into the seat, listing against the window as he closed his eyes and tried not to panic._

_He’d been arrested before. Even at the ripe old age of thirteen, he had seen the inside of a police station holding cell multiple times, but he’d never progressed beyond that. The benefit of being a minor, of looking younger than he really was (malnutrition and poverty had their advantages, to an extent) and being able to pick out the kindest (or most weak-hearted) cops in a station to talk to had made sure he’d always walked out more or less scot-free._

_This time was different. This time, he had accidentally targeted a rich bloke that was a richer bloke than he’d thought, and thus would not be pleased to see the scamp that had inconvenienced him walk away._

_And Ezekiel hadn’t even been in the UK for two days. Bloody fantastic._

_He groaned, biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from cursing out loud._

_‘All your own fault, buddy,’ the second inspector sitting in front of the car informed him, looking back with a grin. Ezekiel glared and was about to open his mouth for a cutting reply, when the door opened and the first inspector looked in with an irritated frown. ‘You. Back out.’_

_Before he could respond, Ezekiel was hauled out of the car by the scruff of his neck and deposited on the street, standing blinking in the yellow streetlights overhead. Twisting and wriggling against the handcuffs and the firm grip the inspector held on his upper arm, it took him a moment to notice the other man that had joined the scene. The man who was watching him with a shrewd gaze that made Ezekiel twist against his restraints even more because nothing good had ever come from someone watching him like that._

_‘Mr. Jones?’ the man asked. He had a pleasant voice, Ezekiel thought even as his unease increased. Warm and rich like the kind you’d hear from favorite grandfathers in the movies. He looked like one of those too: tall but sturdily built, with a shock of salt and pepper hair and a neatly trimmed beard, sharp brown eyes twinkling behind a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. He was dressed unobtrusively in black trousers and a grey coat but Ezekiel could see the small, almost invisible brand logo stamped on the cuffs and pegged the price of that coat at somewhere high up in the triple digits._

_‘Yeah?’ he said, meeting the man’s stare inch for inch. ‘What if I am?’_

_The man sighed. ‘I can see this might take some time. Inspector, if you’d be so kind?’_

_‘Of course, Mr. Aloysius,’ the inspector replied. With a clink and a shock, Ezekiel’s handcuffs fell away._

_He didn’t get far, however. His sprint to freedom ended almost before it began, with Ezekiel lying flat on the pavement, gasping for breath, as the walking stick that had been shoved between his legs at commendable speed was now poking him between his shoulder blades to hold him down._

_‘No,’ the man said, not unkindly. ‘None of that. Mr. Jones, you and I need to talk.’_

\---

It was the smell that hit him first.

Cassandra had once told him that smell was the most powerful memory trigger, which was why she still could not go into a hospital without having to fight off a panic attack. Ezekiel had never really fully understood what that meant, not until the black door had opened and he stepped in to a dimly lit hallway, lined with a hardwood floor. The walls were covered in dark wooden paneling and pale gold wallpaper, a quiet elegance that was in stark contrast with the dilapidated exterior.

But that was not why Ezekiel stood frozen in the doorway for a long second, eyes closed as a wave of patchouli hit his nose.

\---

_‘What’s that smell?’ Ezekiel asked, nose wrinkling as he followed the man (he had introduced himself as Mr. Aloysius, but Ezekiel had found that such a pretentious name he decided to simply call him ‘the man’ until an alternative presented itself) into the stately hallway._

_‘It’s patchouli,’ the man replied, divesting himself of his coat and cane and motioning for Ezekiel to follow him. ‘I find that most older buildings have their own distinctive but often unpleasant odor. Now,’ he continued, opening a door at the end of the hallway. ‘Please, do make yourself at home.’_

_He stepped aside, letting Ezekiel lead the way into a room that looked like a cross between an office and the kind of ancient library you sometimes got to see in old-timey movies. The walls were covered in bookshelves from floor to ceiling, the shelves themselves filled with an odd mixture of modern binders and leather-backed tomes. The floor was heavily carpeted, so the man’s footsteps suddenly sounded weirdly muffled after the hardwood floor of the hallway. In one corner, a pair of dark brown Chesterfields stood around a rickety coffee table while at the other end a heavy wooden desk sat in front of the window providing a magnificent view across the river._

_It would have been a nice place, Ezekiel thought, if the flower smell did not make him want to gag. He shuffled into the room, slowly making his way over to the sofas in the corner but not sitting down. He did not trust this man one bit._

_The eyebrow the man raised told him he’d noticed his tension, but he didn’t comment. Instead he turned to a sidetable carrying a kettle and an assortment of tea jars. ‘Would you like some tea, Mr. Jones?’_

_‘No.’_

_‘Very well.’_

_In the silence, the kettle roiled and churned before turning off. A cup was produced from somewhere Ezekiel couldn’t see, a silver tea spoon tinkled and then the man turned back to him, breathing in the steam that made the room smell of bergamot instead of patchouli._

_Ezekiel did not think that was an improvement._

_‘Mr. Jones,’ the man started, ‘let me introduce myself properly. My name is Aloysius Ponsonby. Please, don’t snort at that. I’m well aware.’_

_‘Wasn’t,’ Ezekiel muttered, quickly schooling his face back into carefully cultivated disinterest._

_‘I’m sure. Mr… may I call you Ezekiel? Ezekiel. You are aware that the wallet you stole from my, ah, esteemed colleague Mr. Dulverton, contained a little more than just his credit cards and a couple of bank notes?’_

_Ezekiel had not been aware of that. But it did explain a lot. From the quick look he had gotten inside the wallet, he had seen nothing that would have warranted such a fuss as the toff had been making, insisting Ezekiel be tried as an adult, be locked away for life or thrown into the Thames with a cinderblock tied to his feet, not necessarily in that order. Just a couple of platinum credit cards, maybe a hundred pounds in cash, and some business cards. Nothing outrageous, but the man had acted like Ezekiel had absconded with his underpants in the middle of Trafalgar Square._

_He shrugged. ‘Sure.’_

_The man’s eyes twinkled. ‘Ezekiel Jones, it seems you are a natural at stealing secrets. Which is why I would like to make you an offer you will_ not _be able to refuse.’_

_\---_

‘My dear boy,’ Uncle Al greeted him, standing up with a warm smile a as Ezekiel stepped on to the plush carpet of his office. ‘So, so good to see you again. My, you have not changed a bit since I last saw you!’

Ezekiel highly doubted that. Instead of reaching out to shake the outstretched hand or returning the smile, he crossed his arms in front of his chest and glared.

At least Uncle Al had not changed much either, although his salt and pepper hair was now mainly salt. There were a few more liver spots, a couple of more wrinkles and Ezekiel thought that the prescription on those horn-rimmed glasses had changed numbers as well, but aside from that, he was still the same bulky, avuncular looking man that Ezekiel had come to love and fear. And then loathe.

‘My apologies for dragging you back here on such short notice,’ Uncle Al continued when it was clear no reply to his greeting would be forthcoming. ‘But I really did not have any other choice. This is a matter of some urgency, some delicacy and I needed an experienced agent I could trust completely.’

 _You needed an expendable agent you could get rid of completely if he proves unsatisfactory,_ Ezekiel thought. He did not have any illusions on what Uncle Al was doing here: either he’d complete this mission, whatever it was, and then be roped back into Uncle Al’s service with Uncle Al holding him by the short and curlies for as long as Stone and Cassandra were being held hostage; or he’d fail and be summarily disposed of.

The thought would have been sobering, if it hadn’t been going around and around in Ezekiel’s head from the moment he answered that phone call. Still he had to fight not to dig his fingers into his shirt and to keep his voice level as he asked: ‘What’s up, then? Her majesty lost a contact lens?’

Uncle Al gave him a look. There had been a time when Ezekiel would have flinched under that look, would have muttered an apology and then afterwards beat himself up for being so rude against the man who had given him so much. Not anymore.

‘No,’ Uncle Al said. ‘Nothing like that.’

\---

The mission, not that Ezekiel had much choice in accepting it, was deceptively simple. A Dutch diplomat by the name of Sybren Buursma had paid a visit to Westminster last week, where he had been introduced to the Prime Minister. Apparently the two had taken a shine to each other and _apparently,_ things had gotten rather steamy. Hot and sweaty and clammy like a dry cleaner’s work room at the end of prom week.

‘We have managed to, ah, _dissuade_ the PM from continuing her dalliance with Mr. Buursma,’ Uncle Al said, unfazed by the way Ezekiel’s eyes were bulging almost out of their sockets. ‘As I’m sure you understand, with her position as precarious as it currently is, neither the PM nor the country needs any more _excitement_.’

But of course, that was not that. Because there was a phone. Containing all kinds of things, according to Uncle Al: from naughty pictures to naughtier texts and there might even be some video footage, which was the point where Ezekiel stopped listening for a couple of seconds to avoid being scarred for life. And Uncle Al would have been quite content to let Mr. Buursma keep his happy memories, naturally, if said Mr. Buursma had not been planning to attend a European conference on climate change in Helsinki later this month. Where he would meet with delegates from all over Europe, including Russia.

‘I trust you get the picture?’ Uncle Al asked. ‘To have this kind of leverage in the hands of our allies, well. That’s one thing. But to have it in the hands of… _not_ our allies, that is quite another.’

Ezekiel got the picture. He sat silently on the Chesterfield, hands knitted together tightly while trying not to scream _are you fucking kidding me_ but he got the picture. ‘I’m to get the phone back. And find and destroy any copies of… whatever he’s made.’

‘Good boy,’ Uncle Al beamed. ‘Quick on the uptake, as always. Well done. Now, I’ve already arranged for Rueben to accompany you to The Hague and, if necessary, to Helsinki although I do trust you will not let it get that far. He will be waiting for you at Heathrow tomorrow morning at ten, so you can use the rest of the day to rest and get your bearings.’ He smiled. ‘You will find your old room precisely as you left it, dear boy.’

Ezekiel was sure he would. He stared at the plush carpet for a moment, letting the silence drag on while the smell of patchouli hung heavy and cloying in the air. Attempting to push down the question Uncle Al’s comment had brought up, the one question he should _not_ ask because it was stupid and pointless and childish and anyway, he was pretty sure he knew the answer already. He closed his eyes, scrunching them shut and swallowing heavily as his stomach churned with a nauseating mixture of fear, resentment and despair.

He had to ask. He could not be back and _not_ ask.

He looked up. Uncle Al was watching him with kind brown eyes over the rim of his spectacles. Ezekiel breathed in. ‘What about my box?’

Uncle Al blinked and sat back, letting out a heavy sigh. With a sinking feeling, Ezekiel realized he already knew the answer. ‘I’m sorry, Agent Jones. I’m afraid I did not think you would need that back.’

Ezekiel nodded, brutally shoving down the bitter sting of disappointment. In a way, it was a relief. It meant that if he managed to give Uncle Al the finger again and get out of his clutches, he would not have to look back, or make a choice.

Not that there _was_ a choice. Not if it came to two live, human beings who meant the world to him on one side and a cheap plastic Lord of the Rings lunchbox on the other, no matter what was in that lunch box.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

‘I understand,’ he muttered, scrubbing his face so Uncle Al would not see his expression. Not that that had ever worked, but it was the thought that counted. ‘Alright. I’ll report to Rueben tomorrow at ten. Do you need anything else from me?’

Uncle Al shook his head and stood up. ‘Go free, dear boy,’ he said, his friendly smile back in place. ‘Go free. And safe travels for tomorrow, if we don’t meet again.’

Ezekiel nodded again and managed to utter something polite in return although he had no idea in what language. Then he made his way out of the room and turned to the right before bolting up the stairs, leaving a cloud of patchouli in his wake.

He might have to leave the Library. He might have to turn his back on the best thing that ever happened to him and go back to one of the darker parts of his history. He might not get to see his team again, might not even get to see his cowboy again and _that_ thought made the urge to scream until he burst out of his skin almost impossible to contain. He might not have a lot of time left in this world, living by the grace of Uncle Al as he once again was.

But he was damned if he wasn’t going to say goodbye.

\---

Immortals don’t need sleep, and if you live long enough, the nightmares you acquire along the way will make sure that sometimes, you do not even want to try. Which was why Jenkins was quietly puttering away in his lab, working on a new batch of mithridate since his supply was dwindling and they had not had a snake monster case _yet,_ but it would only be a matter of time, when he heard the distinctive noise of the Back Door in the distance.

It was 4 o’clock in the morning.

Jenkins frowned into his mortar with the frankincense he was about to grind into dust. That was odd. He was quite certain that all the Librarians were accounted for, i.e. in Portland in their beds and not out on a mission. Even Mr. Jones had (mostly) given up on his nightly exploits, since he had started cohabitating with Mr. Stone, a development that had Jenkins’ full support. There was nothing more aggravating than thinking yourself alone for the night and then bumping into a certain young rascal thief with a suspiciously heavy duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

With a sigh, Jenkins put down the mortar. Perhaps it was Mr. Jones, in which case, there was nothing to worry about. But if it wasn’t, and someone else had found a way to use the door, that could be a problem.

But the Annex was empty. In the darkness, nothing moved and when Jenkins turned on the lights, he did not see anything disturbed. He stood still for a long moment, glancing around and pondering whether he would need to investigate further, but then he shrugged. Evil usually announced themselves in a more conspicuous manner and if there _was_ something wrong, well. Colonel Baird would be here in two hours so they could deal with it together.

Jenkins switched off the lights and went back to his mortar. Grinding down the frankincense was a matter of minutes, and he had just poured it into the bowl with the other pulverized ingredients when he heard the Back Door activate a second time.

This time when he went to investigate, he did notice something odd. Someone had left little pieces of paper on each desk, folded shut so Jenkins could not see if or what was written on them. And the desk of Mr. Stone had acquired a strongbox, with the key already helpfully stuck inside the lock and a pink post-it with a 10-digit code stuck to the top.

With a faint sense of dread, Jenkins turned to his own desk, picking up the note that had been left there, stuck to the folder of recipes he had been meaning to try out. It was cheap paper, the kind you got from the dollar store and not of any quality whatsoever, and the handwriting of his name was frankly atrocious but that was not what made Jenkins’ face darken as he stared at it.

He sat down and folded open the piece of paper to read the message it contained. He was still sitting there when Eve came in and found him two hours later.

 


	4. Chapter 4

_Jenkins,_

_My tea is yours, since you’re the only one who knows how to brew a decent cuppa. Thanks for keeping us all in one piece so far._

_And sorry for the pizza stains in the unabridged Sherlock Holmes books. They were pretty awesome._

_Ezekiel_

\---

‘What is it about this Library?’ Eve asked, raising her head from where she had been banging it against her desk and glaring at Jenkins. ‘Did you put something in the water? Is that it? Why do people just keep _leaving?’_

‘I don’t know,’ Jenkins replied. He sat down heavily across from the Colonel and gave her a thin-lipped smile. ‘I will check the water supply. Although I’m pretty sure the waters from Avalon should not have quite this effect on human beings.’

‘Waters from… you know what, never mind,’ Eve groaned. ‘I’m going to kill him.’

Jenkins hummed. ‘Colonel Baird, although I do wholeheartedly agree with the sentiment, I fear that might be easier said than done. For instance, we would have to find him first.’

‘ _Fuck.’_

‘Indeed.’

Dragging a hand over her face, Eve bent down to pick up the note that had fluttered to the ground and straightened it against her desk. It was brief, not even a hundred words written in Ezekiel’s terrible chicken scrawl which made Eve’s eyes hurt the longer she looked at it.

\---

_Dearest momma Baird,_

_My past has come back to bite me, and they’ve got leverage over me that I cannot afford them to use. So I’ve gone to deal with that. Me being me, I assume everything is going to turn out okay but if I’m not back within thirty days, don’t come looking. You’ve got a world to save._

_And make sure Stone doesn’t sneak off and tries to go and find me too, even though you might have to tie him down first. Remind him that he’s got a world to save as well._

_Take care, Guardian._

_Ezekiel_

\---

‘You said you heard him use the Back Door,’ she said, turning back to Jenkins. Do you know where he went?’

‘London,’ Jenkins replied, looking sideways at the globe sitting next to the door. ‘Somewhere near Vauxhall. I, ah, I have to say I did not think to follow him immediately, so I do not know if that was his final destination or if he merely meant to set us on the wrong track.’

‘Vauxhall,’ Eve said, her voice growing dark with terrible suspicion. ‘Oh god. I’m going to _kill_ him.’

This was met with another noncommittal hum from Jenkins and a hesitant voice behind them that asked: ‘What’s going on?’

Jenkins turned to see Cassandra Cillian had appeared in the doorway, brow furrowed and big blue eyes looking worriedly at Eve Baird. Who had once again taken up banging her head against her desk under a faint muttering of ‘ _kill him’,_ which was why Jenkins sighed and decided to don the mantle of bad news bearer once again.

‘Miss Cillian,’ he started, but he didn’t get any further. At that moment, heavy footsteps sounded through the hallway and a haggard looking Jacob Stone rounded the corner, nearly colliding with Cassandra before he skidded to a halt. ‘Mornin’,’ he growled. ‘Sorry, Cassie. Didn’t see you there.’

‘That’s okay,’ Cassandra replied weakly. ‘Uhm. Are you alright?’

Jake didn’t reply, and Jenkins did not fail to notice how his eyes darted around the room for a second before they landed on Eve and his face darkened. ‘Just got the one question. Has anyone seen Jones? He ah, he didn’t come home last night, thought perhaps he’d crashed in here.’

Silence fell. Then: ‘Jenkins, at the risk of repeating myself…’

‘I know, Colonel. I know.’ Jenkins sighed. ‘Miss Cillian, Mr. Stone. I am afraid that Mr. Jones has taken a leave of absence from the Library.’

‘What?’

‘The hell he has.’

_‘What?’_

_‘_ The _hell_ he has!’

‘I’m afraid so, Mr. Stone,’ Jenkins repeated. He took in the pale, wide-eyed look of shock on one side and the rapidly rising rage on the other and swiftly stepped back. ‘I believe he left each of you a letter. And something else, although… ah. Alright.’ He stopped and took another step back as Jake stalked passed him, marching towards the letter and the strongbox on his desk in a cloud of multilingual swearing. Wherever Mr. Jones was, Jenkins started to suspect he’d better run fast before any of his team mates caught up with him.

‘But why?’ Cassandra asked, turning towards her own desk and reaching for the piece of paper with trembling fingers. ‘I mean. I thought he liked it here. I thought… I thought he liked _us.’_

‘He liked one of us, at least,’ Eve muttered darkly, looking across the Annex to where Jake was glaring at the strongbox on his desk before folding open his note. She looked back down, at her own crumpled and then flattened paper and read the first line again. ‘And I’m starting to think that that’s kind of the problem.’

Cassandra frowned. ‘Huh?’

Eve shook her head. ‘Never mind. Later.’ She sighed, scrubbing her face. ‘What did he tell you? Is it too much to hope for a detailed map and some kind of time table?’

‘Probably,’ Cassandra said, a rueful twist to her mouth as she opened up the note. She skimmed over the lines for a second before her jaw dropped and her eyes grew wide. ‘Oh my god.’

She stumbled, reaching behind her for her chair and sitting down heavily. ‘Oh my god. Oh my… I’m going to _kill him.’_

‘Yeah, well. Get in line,’ Eve told her. She stood up and placed a hand on Cassandra’s back, who was now hunched forward with her own hands clasped in front of her mouth and her eyes the size of dinner plates. ‘And keep breathing, I’m not going to have two Librarians out of commission in one day. What did he say?’

Cassandra nodded and took a deep, deep breath. Swallowed once, twice, and then handed the note to Eve.

\---

_Cass,_

_I can’t tell you how much I needed an adorable red-headed overexcitable math geek in my life. It’s a good thing you’ve never taken up hacking, because I’m not sure even I could compete with you (or if I’d wanted to). Thank you for saving my butt with science more times than I can count._

_Also, your parents have paid off your medical bills (they don’t know yet and I don’t think they’ll find out). Sorry. Please don’t kill me after I’ve come back._

_Ezekiel_

_\---_

‘At least promise me I can kill him after you’re done with him,’ Cassandra muttered while Eve read the note in stunned silence. Trying very hard not to notice how the word ‘after’ was preceded by a number of blackouts, as if there had been a quiet but intense debate over which word to put there, she handed the note back to Cassandra.

‘We might have to draw straws,’ she said, standing up and looking back to where a series of rapid footsteps, followed by a crash and a clatter in the hallway, announced the arrival of the last currently active Librarian.

‘Goooood morning good morning good _morning_ everybody! _So_ sorry to miss the mirror hunting yesterday, got a little caught up trying to reorganize the Mayan artefacts wing. But I’m here, I’m ready, so where are we going today, hm? Magical mayhem in Madrid? Sprites in Sydney? What’s it… what’s wrong?’

Stopping mid-rant and finally getting a sense of the atmosphere in the room, Flynn came to halt halfway to the Clippings Book and around towards his Guardian. Who was glaring at him in her usual exasperated way, although there was something rather off about it. ‘Eve?’ he asked.

Eve sighed. ‘There’s a note on your desk.’

\---

_Flynn,_

_Take care of Baird and stop running off. Also, I still don’t like you but if it helps, I don’t like you a little less now._

_Ezekiel_

\---

‘Hm,’ Flynn said. ‘That’s odd.’

‘You think?’ Eve said, her voice now reaching an almost fatal level of exasperation. ‘Yeah. I’d say that Ezekiel Jones taking off in the middle of the night without telling _anyone_ where he’s going or why, is a little odd. Even without the goodbye notes, although they are a nice cherry on top of the weirdness cake.’

‘No, that’s not…’ Flynn started, then amended: ‘Okay, yes. Yes, that is what I meant. Yes. This is weird, and odd, and strange and something should be done. Where did he go?’

Eve opened her mouth for a cutting reply that boiled down to _no fucking clue_ , but was interrupted by a throat-clearing from Jenkins and a soft noise from Cassandra. ‘Uhm, guys?’

It was at that point that Eve realized how one of her Librarians had not yet said a word since he had stomped away while cursing up a storm. She looked up, past Flynn, past the Clippings Book, to where Jacob Stone was sitting at his desk, slumped like a puppet without strings and his face the color of oatmeal.

‘Stone?’ Eve asked carefully and then, when he didn’t respond, made her way over to crouch down beside him, gripping his shoulder so he had to look at her. ‘Hey. Stone. Talk to me.’

Jake looked down. His mouth was working as if he wanted to say something but could not find the words. The strongbox on his desk stood open and inside, Eve could see a stack of manila folders, each one neatly labeled with a row of numbers that had to be coordinates. With a frown, she turned back to Jake, about to voice one of the dozen or so questions she had, when:

‘He’s not coming back.’

Jake’s voice sounded as if it came from very far away. Eve did not need to hear Cassandra’s gasp or Jenkins’ muttering behind her to feel the ground start to give way underneath her feet, but she did, and she did. ‘Stone,’ she started, but he cut her off. ‘No. He’s not… he’s not. Coming back.’

‘What do you mean?’ Cassandra asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Jake didn’t seem to hear, or didn’t listen. Instead he turned to Eve again, nodding at the letter she still held in her hand. ‘What’d he tell you?’ he asked hoarsely.

Eve read out the note again. With every word, Jake seemed to sag further and further into his chair until he was barely upright, blue eyes distant and throat working hard.

‘ _Take care, Guardian. Ezekiel_ ,’ Eve finished at last. Silence stretched out again, dark and heavy as the air that hung in the Annex shifted from righteous anger to something far more serious.

‘Jake,’ Cassandra asked again. She had taken up position at Jake’s other side. Holding a hand to his arm to keep him from falling out of the chair, she was looking down at him, biting her lip and eyes full of concern. ‘What do you mean he is not coming back?’

\---

_Stone,_

_I’ve never really meant to steal a heart, but you’ve just gone ahead and given me yours. What the hell am I supposed to do now? At least I hope you enjoy having mine, even though we both know you’ve got the short end of the stick there._

_I told Baird not to come after me. I know I can’t stop you and I’m not sure even Baird can, but please try and stay with the Library, because that’s where you belong. More than anybody I know. (Don’t tell the others I said that, but we both know I’m right)._

_But, if you need to get out: you said you always wanted to travel the world. Here’s some places you can stay, since I won’t be needing them. Use them well, love._

_EJ_

_PS, sorry for nicking your present. Hope you don’t mind I’m still keeping it, you never know if it might help._

_\---_

This wasn’t exactly how he’d imagined going about this, Ezekiel thought glumly as he hoisted the strongbox on to Jake’s desk. Still, it was the best he could do on such short notice and since he had meant to share this with his cowboy someday anyway, well. Now was apparently the time.

He put the strongbox down as quietly as he could, crossing his fingers and hoping Jenkins would not show up again before he was done; leave it to that blasted old bloke to wander around the Library when every well-thinking being should be asleep.  Having arranged everything to his liking, Ezekiel stood still and looked around the darkened Annex, flexing his fingers and trying to keep his breathing under control in a way that had nothing to do with lugging a 30 pound iron box down two flights of stairs.

All letters were in place. They were a bit short and he had a nagging feeling that he had forgotten to write down quite a lot of important stuff, but on the other hand: if he was going to write down everything he wanted to say, then he’d be here for days. And anyway, all the stuff that really mattered, such as his tea and his financials, had been taken care of and he could only hope and trust that Stone would know what to do with the rest.

The only thing left to do was open the strongbox so Stone wouldn’t go and try to force the lock (not that that would work, but Ezekiel knew his cowboy). But that would involve beeping and beeping might bring back Jenkins and unwanted questions so in the end, Ezekiel stuck the key into the lock, nicked a post-it from Jenkins’ desk and wrote down the code and let Stone figure it out for himself.

‘Unharmed go forth,’ he muttered, sticking the note on top of the strongbox. ‘You and me both, cowboy.’

His fingers lingered on the note for a moment as he stood still again, eyes closed and his other hand reaching for the small item in his pocket. His fingers curled around it and he swallowed, his thumb brushing round and round over the edges. He knew what it was now; the paper had ripped so much it had all but fallen away when he was making his way through London and he had not been able to resist taking it out and look at it at last, just in case he might want to give it back after all.

Seconds ticked by. Then Ezekiel grabbed the note he left for Jake again, hastily scribbled one last PS, folded it up and put it back on the desk. After all: if there was one thing he’d learned from working in a magical Library, it was that you never knew.

\---

‘His safe houses,’ Eve said flatly, looking up from the folder she was holding. With Jake still not responsive, she had taken it out and opened it up to see a picture of an apartment building, an address, some documents that looked a lot like very real and very legal property deeds and a page with what she assumed to be key codes, all crossed out except the last one. ‘He left you his safe houses? Why… why would he do that?’

‘Berlin,’ Cassandra muttered, fingers dancing over the tabs with coordinates. ‘Moscow. New York. LA. Rio. Seoul. Jake, there’s a _lot_ of them. Why…’

‘’Cause he ain’t gonna need them.’

Jake’s voice was a crack. ‘He’s not…’He drew a breath and sat up, every movement seeming to be a monumental effort. He sat forward, planting an elbow on his desk and gesturing blindly around with one hand, while scrubbing his face with the other. ‘Just. Think. Read your damn notes. What’s this look like to you?’

‘Stone, I don’t think…’ Flynn started, then halted again in the face of Jake’s glare. ‘No. I mean. Speaking from experience, sorry Eve, but I’ve said goodbye like this before. And I’ve always come back. Why would this be any different? And besides,’ he swallowed before, with the self-preservation instinct of a frat boy, he pressed on: ‘this _is_ Ezekiel Jones we’re talking about.’

Jake stood up. Eve made a move as if to jump in front of him, while Jenkins had already dragged Flynn out of the path of the oncoming storm but that turned out to be unnecessary: Jake simply walked past him in silence, note crumpled in one hand and his gaze locked on something in the far distance before he vanished into the darkness of the hallway.

‘What…’ Flynn started, but he was cut off by Eve. ‘Flynn. Shut up.’

She stood up and reached for Cassandra, who had gone white as a sheet and was trembling like a leaf. ‘Sit down. Flynn. Before you left, thank you for reminding me, did you always organize an elaborate splitting up of all your belongings? Because believe me, I’m trying to see the positive here but he left Jenkins his _tea.’_

Flynn’s expression sobered. ‘Ah.’

‘But why the houses?’ Cassandra asked softly, still staring at the open strongbox. ‘I still don’t get it. Why did he not… why didn’t he take those with him?’

Eve looked at her for a long second and for the first time, the stern soldier mask was starting to show some cracks. She swallowed and looked back down at her note.

_If I’m not back within thirty days._

She opened her mouth, tried to find the words for a reply, but Jenkins got there first. He abandoned his hold on Flynn and made his way over to Cassandra, his eyes meeting Eve’s over her head before he said: ‘Because it’s as Mr. Stone told us. He will not need them any longer. Wherever Mr. Jones is and whatever he is doing…’

‘… he is not planning on getting out alive,’ Eve finished.


	5. Chapter 5

The Library around him was dark and quiet, an endless expanse of books and artefacts that stretched out way further than the naked eye could see. The only light came from the two lanterns indicating the door back to the hallway. They cast a meagre yellow glow that, if anything, only deepened the shadows between the bookshelves.

Not that it mattered. Not to Jake, in any case, who sat with his back against the couch in one of the reading nooks, his knees drawn up to his chest and blue eyes staring, unblinking into the distant gloom.

A crumpled up piece of cheap paper lay next to him on the dusty hardwood floor.

The funny thing was that he wasn’t even angry. All his life, he had reached for righteous fury as a handy go-to emotion when things got sticky and now, when others would say that he had every right to be as furious as a raging bull in a North Korean military parade, he found nothing. Just. Nothing. No anger, no roiling rage at the way the punk had pulled the wool over his eyes with his _I’ll see you tomorrow,_ not even burning resentment at being abandoned in the middle of the night without any kind of warning.

No nothing. Just an empty pit where his anger used to be. And a cold, hollow feeling around him where the other half of his heart used to be.

‘Hey.’

He blinked. Someone, somewhere, just said something. Someone standing in front of him, now crouching down to look him in the eye and putting a hand on his knee.

‘Hey,’ Cassandra said again, squeezing his knee a little tighter. Jake blinked again and slowly, the red hair and blue eyes in a too-pale face drifted into focus. ‘I was just… uhm. Do you… need anything?’

Jake shook his head.

‘Okay,’ Cassandra said softly. She sat back on her heels. ‘You… you know we’re going to find him, right?’

Jake didn’t move. Then her words landed and he frowned, giving her an incredulous look.

‘I know he said not to come after him,’ Cassandra continued. She shifted until she was sitting on the floor next to Jake, easily taking his weight as he listed sideways against her. ‘And Baird says that if he’s really gone back to MI6 that we shouldn’t interfere anyway, because we might only make things worse. But,’ she stopped and made a face as Jake made a pained little noise. ‘I know. But, we can still find out where he is. And, I don’t know. Track him. Just in case.’

‘Just in case,’ Jake muttered. He sat up straight and took a deep breath, finally seeming to land back into this universe. ‘Fuck.’

Cassandra took his hand and squeezed it. ‘I know.’

‘He left his bag.’

The words were quiet but they dropped like, well, like stones. ‘He… he thinks I don’t know about it, but I do. He’s got a bag. Some kind of emergency kit, I don’t know. But it’s got passports and documents and burner phones and all that shit you’d take with you if you’ve gotta run and when I found out he hadn’t been home I got… I got worried and checked. It was still there.’

Cassandra said nothing.

‘Should’ve known,’ Jake went on softly. ‘Should’ve. Should’ve known. Should’ve stopped him, tied him down and asked him what the hell… _fuck.’_

‘Jake.’

‘His fucking safe houses, Cassie.’

‘I know.’

Silence dragged on, grey and heavy, until Jake finally asked: ‘How?’

‘How?’

‘How… how’d you wanna find him?’

‘Well,’ Cassandra said with something that was almost a smile. ‘He said he was glad I’ve never taken up hacking. I guess it’s never too late to try.’

Jake breathed out again, his fingers lacing with Cassandra’s and holding on tight. ‘Yeah. That. That might be… yeah.’

‘And,’ Cassandra said, ‘uhm. Whenever you’re ready, but. Baird has some other ideas as well.’

Jake didn’t respond. Cassandra sat still, then gave Jake’s hand a final squeeze before letting go and sitting up, turning around to face him. ‘Jake, we’ll find him. We’ll find out what he’s up to and we’ll follow him and if anything…’ She stopped again, closed her eyes and swallowed before she finished: ‘whenever we can. We’ll make sure to bring him home.’

\---

Uncle Al hadn’t lied when he said Ezekiel’s old room was still as he left it, Ezekiel thought. Not that there had been much to change: the bed he was sitting on was a simple but sturdy IKEA affair, just like the dresser and desk in the corner. The walls were painted white, which, together with the pale wooden floorboards, should have made the room feel light and clean, but only reminded Ezekiel of a prison cell.

At least his The Mummy Returns poster was still there, tacked above the desk where he had put it up all those years ago. The edges were curling and the colors had faded with age, but it was still there. Ezekiel could even tell it had been hanging there all this time and that it had not just been pinned back in to place the day before, which made him wonder. Just how long had Uncle Al been waiting for him to come back before he decided to haul Ezekiel back in himself?

The longer he thought about it, the more the question burned sour in his throat. He wrinkled his nose and, in a gesture that was already becoming far more instinctive than he’d like to admit, he reached for the item in his pocket again, the birthday present he had taken out of his cowboy’s jacket.

It was small, and the longer Ezekiel looked at it, the more he was convinced that it hadn’t been meant as his _real_ present. Just a token, something for the heck of it because Jake had seen it somewhere and liked the thought behind it.

Ezekiel let his thumb brush across the silver pendant, winding the leather strap round and round his fingers until it stood tense as a bow string and his fingers started to tingle from their blood flow being cut off. One side of the pendant was decorated with what seemed to be two people in a boat and fancy squiggles around the edges but that was not what had caused Ezekiel to sit very still and count his breaths very carefully the moment he had taken it out and looked at it for the first time.

Because the back of the pendant was inscribed with runes that looked Nordic, even to Ezekiel’s untrained eye. There was a little card included with a translation and explanation and after Ezekiel had read it, looked at the pendant again, read the card again and then looked at the pendant _again_ even though his vision was going too blurry to make out any details, he found himself… not exactly hopeful, not really. But lighter, breathing a little easier in a way he had not really seen coming.

The card read:

_Modeled from the Lillbjärs picture stone found in Stenkyrka, Gotland, Sweden. The inscription on the back is Frigga's blessing to Odin: "Unharmed go forth, Unharmed return, Unharmed safe home.”_

Well, Ezekiel thought as he carefully unwound the leather strap from his hand to tie it around his neck. He flexed his fingers and tucked the pendant safely away beneath his shirt. One out of three would have to do, for now.

\---

‘ _This is your room,’ Mr. Aloysius told him. ‘Try not to break anything. Housekeeping is once a week so if you spill something, please mop it up yourself.’_

_Ezekiel looked around. The room was small and bare and white and stank of flowers, but to a kid who had grown up dirt poor and had lived on the streets for long stretches at a time, it looked like a dream. There was even a window, a proper glass window with no cracks and no gaps through which draft could come in, a real window with a real view across the river._

_This was great. He grinned and stepped inside, turning around and around before looking at his new boss. ‘I like it.’_

_‘I thought you might,’ Mr. Aloysius said with a smile. ‘If you need anything, I’ll be downstairs and if I’m not there, you can ask Rueben or Marge. Breakfast at 8, lunch at 12 and dinner at 6.30, in the kitchen. Common room closes at 9, lights out 9.30. I trust that’s clear?’_

_‘Crystal,’ Ezekiel replied. ‘Thanks, boss.’_

_Mr. Aloysius made a face. ‘Dear boy, I don’t think we have to be that formal when you’re going to live here now, are we? There’s no need to call me boss. Aloysius will do.’_

_Now it was Ezekiel’s turn to make a face. ‘Bit of a mouthful, though. Boss,’ he said with a crooked grin. ‘Permission to think of something else?’_

_Mr. Aloysius sighed and shook his head. ‘As long as it’s nothing too atrocious, permission granted.’_

\---

Ezekiel knew he should sleep. He needed to rest and make sure he was on top of his game before his mission started tomorrow and also, he had passed the 24-hour mark for being awake hours ago. In fact, even just the thought of lying down and closing his eyes made him yawn and his limbs feel heavy and he had to blink and shake his head to dispel the fog of exhaustion that was threatening to overwhelm him.

He stood up. The floorboards creaked underneath his feet as he moved towards the wash basin, took out the (suspiciously) brand new toiletry kit, found the razor and started to say goodbye to the last part of his life as a Librarian.

\---

_‘NEW GUY,’ was the first thing hollered at him when he set foot in the common room downstairs. It was a nice room, cozy and homey with a hardwood floor covered in mismatched rugs, a couple of worn leather sofas and overstuffed chairs on one side and an eclectic combination of overflowing bookshelves and a brand new, top of the line home entertainment station on the other. The fact that there was barely any natural light, due to the room being in the basement and therefore partway underground, only added to the homely atmosphere. It was a far cry from the Spartan whiteness of the bedrooms upstairs._

_There were about half a dozen other kids in the room, ranging in age from (as far as Ezekiel could guess) ten to sixteen years old. Some were hanging out on the sofas, looking through stacks of papers or reading; three others were apparently engaged in a Mario Kart battle to the death, with one tiny blonde girl taking advantage of her opponent being momentarily distracted to lob a blue shell in his direction._

_‘Nice,’ Ezekiel told her as she whooped and the other guy, a black buzz cut twice her size started to swear up a storm. He turned to grin at the guy who greeted him first; he had short cropped red hair, bright green eyes, an ungodly amount of freckles all over his face and he was wearing an electric pink shirt that said ‘Weasleys for the Win’. Ezekiel liked him immediately._

_‘You really a Weasley?’ he asked, making his way into the room. ‘Because if not, you definitely should audition.’_

_The redhead (Ezekiel had already dubbed him Freckles) grinned. ‘I wish, mate. Muggle central around here.’ He stood up from where he had been sitting on the couch, sending a sheaf of paper cascading towards the floor. ‘Oh, shit. Bugger that. Hi.’_

_‘Hi,’ Ezekiel said. He shook the hand that was offered, and then the next, and then the next as more people came closer until he was at the center of six or seven pairs of curious eyes. ‘Uhm. Nice to meet you all?’_

_‘Don't sound too sure about that,’ the blonde Mario Kart champion laughed. ‘Half of them are idiots and the other half are berks. Welcome to Mr. Aloysius’ super secret spy syndicate. I’m Polly.’_

_‘Pauline,’ Freckles corrected. Polly/Pauline stuck out her tongue and flipped him the bird. ‘I’m Frankie. Nice to meet you too, I guess.’_

_‘Ezekiel,’ Ezekiel said, which made Polly go ‘yikes, sorry’ and was followed by the others introducing themselves as well. Ezekiel forgot most names the moment he heard them but he smiled, shook hands and took in as many other details as he could. He still wasn’t entirely sure whether he wanted to be here, but he_ was _here and if so, he’d better make the most of it while he could._

_‘So, new guy,’ Frankie said with a clap to Ezekiel’s shoulder that sent him stumbling towards the sofa. He gathered up the papers that were strewn all across the floor, shoved them together and dumped the stack on an ancient coffee table. Upside down, Ezekiel noticed, so he could not read all those interesting tables and blueprints that had caught his eye. ‘What’s your deal?’_

\---

The strands of black stood out stark against the porcelain white of the wash basin. Dragging the razor slowly over the last bits of fuzz, Ezekiel then dug out a towel from the cabinet underneath, rubbed it over his head and then looked up to inspect his handiwork in the mirror.

It looked… odd. Not bad. Not really, just a little uneven with some near-bald patches here and there, but that would even out in a couple of days. In a way, it even suited him, although his head looked huge right now. It made him look older. Sharper. Tougher, in a way that he could use when he was going back to working in the shadows.

But as he rubbed a hand over the stubble and then scooped out the hair from the basin to throw it into the bin with a wry smile, Ezekiel could not help but think that, _if_ he managed to make it back to the Library, this might be the one crime his cowboy would never forgive him for.

The lid of the bin closed with a snap. Ezekiel looked at it for a long moment and then turned back to the mirror.

‘Welcome back, Agent Jones,’ he muttered. ‘Welcome back.’

\---

_‘What’s with the buzz cuts?’ Ezekiel asked as he plonked down on the sofa. He looked around the room again and took in what he had noticed earlier: everyone, from Polly who could not be older than eleven, to the surly looking big guy in the corner who had grunted a ‘Dave’ and then went back to glare into his beer, was sporting closely cropped hairstyles with only a faint layer of color left visible on top of their heads._

_‘Ah, yes,’ Frankie said, sitting down beside him and rubbing a hand over his head before grinning at Ezekiel. ‘One of Mr. A.’s weird things, I’m afraid. Something to do with cleanliness or uniformity or whatever, or perhaps just because it makes it easier to wear a wig if you have to. We’ve not really decided yet. But he insists on it, so every once in a while Marge or Rueben busts out the razor and there we go. Like little sheep.’_

_Ezekiel made a face. He wasn’t vain, per se, but he liked his hair and he had already met Rueben: a large, ham-fisted sort of man who looked like he would just as easily cut his throat instead of his hair._

_‘You can do it yourself, if you want,’ Frankie offered, reading Ezekiel’s hesitation correctly. ‘But you gotta do it. Mr. A. won’t let you go out otherwise.’_

_‘Right,’ Ezekiel said slowly. At the other end of the room, Polly had set up a new game of Mario Kart and her opponent, apparently having learned nothing from his earlier defeat, was in the lead again. He was playing Bowser, Ezekiel noticed. Polly, true to the stereotype, was Princess Peach. ‘Mr. A. What’s_ his _deal? Are you all really super-secret spies?'_

_‘In a way,’ Frankie grinned, sinking back into the worn leather cushions. ‘We steal stuff that needs stealing, take it to Mr. A. and he’ll take care of it. We don’t ask any questions, other than what we need to know and in return, he gives us everything we need.’ A crash, a victory cheer and an explosive piece of name-calling indicated that Polly had once again been triumphant and Frankie paused to give her a thumbs up and a whoop before he finished: ‘Not a bad bargain, if you ask me.’_

_‘What kind of stuff do you steal?’ Ezekiel asked._

_Frankie shrugged. ‘All kinds. Documents. USB drives. Phones. Anything that might’ve got information on it, mostly. Although Polly got to nick some jewelry last week, didn’t you, Pols?’_

_‘Pretty necklace,’ Polly agreed. She had wandered over to park herself on the coffee table, heels kicking against the leg. She had also procured a bottle of orange soda from somewhere and took a huge gulp before she continued: ‘Some nicely cut sapphires, but I thought the silver filigree was a bit rough around the edges. Don’t know what Mr. A. wanted with it, but he seemed delighted when I came back, so.’_

_Stealing secrets for a living, Ezekiel thought as Polly and Frankie devolved into an argument about sapphires vs. rubies and their respective aesthetical value. Even if he had to give up his hair, that did not seem like a bad bargain indeed._

_\---_

The house was empty, as Ezekiel discovered after a short exploratory trek through the hallway. There were some shoes and some knickknacks lying around, indicating that there were people who would (hopefully) be back soon but otherwise, it was quiet.

Not that it mattered. Polly, Frankie, Dave, that guy whose ass Polly kept beating at Mario Kart: they were all long gone and even if Ezekiel had wanted to go down to the common room, he doubted he would meet anyone who would remember him. Ten years was a long time, even if you weren’t into some kind of shady government business.

He stepped back into his room and closed the door behind him. The lock turned with an iron sound, the bolt followed suit and then, finally, after one of the longest days of his life, Ezekiel went to bed.


	6. Chapter 6

‘Jeremiah,’ Rueben greeted him the next morning when Ezekiel walked into the private airport lounge at LCY. ‘Of all the ones that got away, it’s good to see you found your way back.’

Ezekiel said nothing. Rueben had not changed, much like Uncle Al: he was still the big, burly man from years ago, with short blond hair and pale blue eyes in a ruddy, weather-beaten face. The kind of face that made him look friendlier and stupider than he really was, which was a mistake most of Uncle Al’s kids made at least once. And only once.

When Ezekiel had made that mistake, it had cost him two broken ribs, a concussion that had him see double and vomit up everything he ate for two weeks and it would have cost him his fingers too if Uncle Al had not intervened in time. He had told Rueben to back off, taken Ezekiel out of his office and made sure he got in bed with enough painkillers to knock out a horse, all while apologizing profusely. _My dear boy, I am so sorry and rest assured I will be disciplining him but you have to understand, you have to be more careful, he has got a temper and you can’t do and say such things…_

At the time, Ezekiel had been extremely grateful. At the time, he had thought Uncle All was right. At the time, he had thought it was all his fault if Rueben exploded, he had thought Uncle Al was protecting him instead of calling off the dog he had set on Ezekiel himself.

God, he had been such an idiot back then.

‘Or say nothing, that’s alright,’ Rueben said, blue eyes twinkling in a smile that was not pleasant at all. ‘I know it’s still early. Coffee machine’s over there if you need to. Plane’s not here yet, so we’ve got time to catch up.’

He sat back down on the beige leather chair, stretching his legs over the equally beige carpet and watched with a benevolent expression how Ezekiel dumped his duffel bag on the floor and crossed the room towards the stack of Styrofoam cups at the other end.

In the silence, the steam and sizzle of the hot black liquid pouring out of the machine sounded impossibly loud. Even the roaring of the planes outside, taking off into a slowly brightening sky as dawn progressed, sounded muffled. LCY was tiny but it was also a business airport, which meant early morning air traffic rush hour was in full swing. Staring outside, Ezekiel counted at least half a dozen planes coming in, and half a dozen leaving, just in the time it took for his coffee to fill up.

No matter how many sugar and cream packets he poured into it, the coffee tasted about the same as the bile that had been lingering at Ezekiel’s throat since the moment he woke up. He made a face, swallowed the last dregs that burned his tongue and tasted of battery acid, and dumped the cup in the trash. Then he took a deep breath and turned around, finally facing Rueben head on for the first time in years.

‘So. You said something about catching up?’ he asked, his grin even more unpleasant than the one Rueben had greeted him with. ‘How’s Marge?’

Rueben’s face darkened in a way that did not spark a little bit of resentful joy in Ezekiel at all. ‘She’s dead,’ he grunted. ‘But you’d know about that, wouldn’t you? Jeremiah?’

Ezekiel rolled his eyes at the nickname. ‘I heard, yeah. Car accident, was it?’

‘If you want to call it that, sure.’ Rueben spat. ‘Car accident. Being run off the road and into the river while nobody’s seen nothing and all traffic cams have just stopped working for an hour? Bloody convenient car accident.’

It had been very convenient indeed. Both for Ezekiel, the kids in Uncle Al’s institute and the Irish separatists that had just been royally screwed by that self-same Marge. Ezekiel did not point out that this was what happened to people in  Uncle Al’s employ; instead he made a face that he hoped conveyed a little bit of the sympathy he did not feel in the slightest and decided to stop poking the bear that was going to have him on a leash for the foreseeable future.

Besides. Marge had been even meaner than Rueben was. Which, combined with the fact that she ruled the kitchen, meant she could make life at the Institute hell for everybody. A fact she was fully aware of and consequently took full advantage of as often as she pleased. Ezekiel was not going to waste any more words, or thoughts, on that bloody bitch than absolutely necessary.

(The fact that she had called him _Ozzie_ , which was so completely devoid of creativity it made him sick, had nothing to do with it. Nothing at all. At least _Jeremiah_ meant Rueben was putting some thought into insulting him, something Ezekiel could kind of appreciate. In a way).

He grabbed another cup and turned back to the coffee machine, watching the thin black stream squirt into the Styrofoam before it sputtered out. He poured in two packets of creamer, one packet of sugar, as if that was going to achieve anything, and then looked up to see a tiny plane touch down on the runway outside.

‘Plane’s here,’ Rueben announced from behind him. ‘Playtime’s over, Jeremiah. Time to go.’

\---

The plan was simple. Fly from LCY to Rotterdam, where a car would be waiting to take them to Voorburg, to Mr. Buursma’s private residence. There, they would take stock of the place, the surroundings and any security measures that were not in Uncle Al’s file and then retreat to the hotel to fine-tune their strategy. They had the blueprints to the house, a detailed schedule of anybody who could be coming or going in the next couple of days and the not unreasonable assumption that Mr. Buursma would want to keep his phone on him at all times; for a master thief, this should be a piece of cake.

‘Back home by Christmas, eh, Jeremiah?’ Rueben grinned when they walked out on to the tarmac, elbowing Ezekiel in the ribs in a way that sent him stumbling to the side. ‘We’ll be back in no time and then you can get to work on the _real_ challenges again.’

Ezekiel couldn’t wait.

\---

Two hours later, they were standing in a tree-lined street in Voorburg, making sure to stay well out of the way of the emergency services that were swarming around the smoking crater in the ground. The smoking crater that had been the house of the (presumably now sadly deceased) Mr. Buursma.

‘You said something about being home by Christmas?’ Ezekiel muttered.

Rueben scowled. ‘Shut up, Jeremiah.’

\---

It took Jake a while. To shake himself out of the _this isn’t happening_ stupor, find his feet and drag himself back to the Annex, still shivering inside his hoodie because he couldn’t seem to get warm

The coffee Cassandra pressed into his hands the moment she caught sight of him did only so much to dispel the lingering cold around him. It tasted sour and thin, nothing like the thick sweet brew Jenkins normally produced, and it landed in his stomach like a brick. But the caffeine helped, and as he swallowed the last gulp and put down the mug, he blinked, slowly coming back into full awareness for the first time since he had opened that fucking letter.

Around him, the Annex was in… well, not chaos. But there were various flurries of activity going on, overlapping and interrupting to make it seem like several tiny tornados were happening all at once. Flynn was in one corner, Clippings Book spread open on the floor surrounded by stacks of paper and the blackboard; Eve was in another, fielding calls. Jake couldn’t make out what she was saying, but he could hear her tone of voice and whoever was on the other end of the line was definitely getting an earful of angry Baird. In between them, Jenkins wandered from side to side, back and forth and dragging his own ancient phone on wheels with him. Judging from his expression, his phone calls weren’t going any better than Eve’s.

‘Flynn is working cases,’ Cassandra said, coming up to lean against his desk beside him. ‘We figured we couldn’t let the world implode while we’re looking for Ezekiel, so he volunteered.’

‘Bet he did,’ Jake muttered. He couldn’t even blame Flynn and anyway, it was probably for the best: let the one with the most experience in hunting artefacts and the least experience in shady criminal dealings do his thing while they went Jones hunting. ‘What’s Eve doing?’

‘Calling her sources,’ Cassandra said. ‘And calling in favors. A lot of them, I think. Uhm. She also said that the two of us are grounded for the time being.’

Jake gave her an incredulous look. ‘We’re what now?’

‘Grounded. Or Annexed. Or whatever. Anyway, we’re not to leave the Library until Eve says so.’ Cassandra gave him a tight-lipped smile. ‘It’s something to do with the leverage he was talking about in his letter.’

The chill that the coffee had chased away returned, with a vengeance as realization dawned on Jake. ‘We’re. We’re the leverage.’

Cassandra nodded and that was the moment Jake noticed for the first time that she was shaking and trying her level best to hide it. Tiny flickers of anger started to make themselves known, also for the first time, and Jake welcomed them with open arms because now things were starting to make some semblance of sense. ‘Someone’s watching us. Someone’s threatening to hurt us if he doesn't do as they say.’

Cassandra nodded again miserably. ‘And instead of telling us and letting us help him like a normal person…’

‘… he just fucked right of to deal with it himself.’ Jake groaned and scrubbed his face until his vision went blurry. The anger was growing now, a roiling red-hot ball in his stomach that made breathing a whole lot easier. ‘God, I’m gonna kill him.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ Eve called from the other side of the room, putting her hand over the receiver of her phone. ‘Yes, Tom, I know this isn’t an official NATO investigation which is why I’m not calling in the capacity of a NATO colonel. But if you could _please…_ yes, I’ll hold. Thank you.’

Jake shook his head and then stepped back to let Jenkins pass as he came wandering by again. ‘Yes, darling, I know it’s been ages but I do _not_ have time to catch up right now. Yes, of course I remember the summer of 1769 when we…’ here, he trailed off after casting a furtive glance around. ‘But as I said, _there’s. no. time._ Could you please… ?’

Jake didn’t want to know. He turned back to Cassandra. ‘So what do we do?’

Cassandra pointed to her desk, where a desktop and various other devices Jake recognized from Ezekiel’s office had already been set up. ‘I’ll see if I can track him from here. We’ve got a starting point and he has shown me a couple of times how to get into traffic cameras, so I’ll… I’ll try and go from there.’

‘Alright,’ Jake said slowly. ‘But that’ll only tell us where he is. Not what’s going on, or who’s got him. Or us. Whatever.’

‘I know,’ Cassandra said. She stood up from the desk, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and turned to face him. ‘That’s where you come in.’

‘Mr. Stone,’ Jenkins called from the doorway. The wheeled phone stood behind him, momentarily abandoned. ‘If you would please come with me, there are two rooms in this Library I think you might want to see.’

\---

The air in the small, windowless room was stifling and smelled of hot wax. It reminded Jake vaguely of his visit to the Notre Dame in Paris, when he had paused in front of the enormous iron construction filled with at least a hundred burning prayers. Their scent, heavy and sweet and hovering almost tangible in the air had lingered in his nostrils for the rest of the day.

‘So these are all Librarians?’ he asked, softly as not to disturb the quiet darkness of the room.

‘Not all,’ Jenkins replied. ‘There are only four of you, after all. But all these people have a… connection. To the Library, in one way or other.’

Jake paused. ‘Good or bad?’

‘Good or bad.’ Jenkins nodded towards a large candle in glittering green and gold. ‘I trust you remember Ms. Le Fay?’

‘Sure,’ Jake muttered, shaking his head. ‘Alright. Which one’s Jones?’

‘That one.’

Jenkins pointed towards a novelty candle in the shape of one of the hobbits from Lord of the Rings. Jake would have laughed, if the head of the small figure hadn’t been all but burned away and the flame had started making deep inroads on the body already.

‘It keeps changing, for some reason,’ Jenkins said behind him while Jake stared. ‘I remember it being a rubber duck not two days ago. And before that, I believe it was some kind of monkey.’

Jake made a face. ‘Yeah, it would change.’

Jenkins hummed. In the quiet, the flames flickered merrily away, forming a haze of golden light until Jake could barely tell them apart anymore.

‘And if a candle goes out…’

Jenkins hummed again.

‘Right.’ Jake heaved a sigh. ‘Okay. So. Who’s gonna keep an eye in here and what’s the other room?’

‘I believe I saw Miss Cillian extract some kind of camera device from Mr. Jones’ desk earlier,’ Jenkins replied, his mouth quirking up into what was almost a smile. ‘So I believe she has ‘got that’, as you would say. And as for the second room…’

\---

‘This,’ Jenkins announced as he opened the door, ‘is the Chamber of What Came Before.’

A gust of cold air blew past as Jake stepped forward, smelling of dust and ancient paper. He opened his mouth to voice a question, then blinked, and stopped as his eyes adjusted to the light and he could see.

The candle room had been small and stuffy. Just one or two tables shoved against the wall with barely room for two people to stand inside.

This room was _huge._ It stretched away into the darkness, because in here there was barely any light, the walls and ceiling rising high over Jake’s head. His footsteps echoed as he took another step, crossing the threshold and making his way to the first of the bookshelves. The room was full of them: they were standing, neatly lined against the walkway in the middle, and they were crammed full with boxes, books, stacks of paper, anything and everything shoved together in seemingly arbitrary clusters.

Then Jake stepped even closer and saw the small, golden tag on the first shelf. ‘ _The Scholar of Yahuda,’_ he read out loud. ‘The Scholar of… hang on. Wait. Wasn’t that…’

‘Judson,’ Jenkins said behind him. ‘Indeed.’

Jake stepped back and took in the organized chaos on the shelf. ‘This is Judson’s stuff?’

‘Well… yes and no.’ Jenkins turned, flicked a switch and a dim yellow glow filled the room, illuminating the vast expanse of shelves. ‘This is Judson’s _stuff,_ yes, but from _before_ he became a Librarian. All his belongings from _during_ his tenure, well. They would not fit on this shelf. He and Charlene have their own wing for those items acquired or created during their time as a Librarian. It’s a rather interesting place.’

Jake could readily believe that. ‘So what’s this?’ he asked, fingering a scroll that, to his trained eye, looked at least two millennia old. Which made sense, when he thought about it.

‘It’s as I said,’ Jenkins said, making his way into the room and motioning for Jake to follow him. Their steps resounded through the room as they walked, passing rows and rows of shelves, each with their own little name tag. ‘This is from before. All the research, all the information, everything worth knowing about a Librarian from their former life is in here.’ He stopped. ‘Ah. Right here. Mr. Stone?’

Jake stared. Because the spines on the bookshelf in front of him, their titles standing out in bold black letters, looked awfully familiar. ‘That’s… that’s my research. My papers.’

‘Indeed it is.’ Jenkins took another step in between the shelves. ‘And over here…’

Medical files. A whole stack of them, sending chills down Jake’s spine the longer he looked at them. ‘That’s Cassandra’s.’

Jenkins nodded, a shadow passing over his face before he moved on again without comment. ‘And I believe this is Mr. Jones.’ He looked up, a small smile tugging at his mouth again. ‘I have to admit, I’m surprised to see it is still here. I believe Mr. Jones spent quite a lot of time in here during his first few weeks as a Librarian. He called it the Background Check Room.’

Jake didn’t smile. He only had eyes for the together pile of files and papers on the shelf, haphazardly shoved together until only a miracle or possibly the temporary deactivation of gravity would keep them from falling down. ‘That’s Jones’?’

‘That,’ Jenkins repeated, ‘is Mr. Jones. I have not looked at it thoroughly, but I have found there is rather a lot of information in there. Let us hope it will do us some good.’

‘Fingers crossed, Jenkins,’ Jake muttered, taking an armful of papers off the shelf and holding it up for Jenkins to pile another load of folders on top. ‘Fingers crossed.’


End file.
